


pacifier

by Toft



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, Dystopia, Fucking Machines, M/M, Medical Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the anon prompt "John is an omega and needs to be sexually sated. Harold is a doctor who sates him using appropriate devices. (and maybe not so appropriate ones... bonus for coming dry/prostate milking and/or fisting)" from the POI kink meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	pacifier

**Author's Note:**

> Link to the POI kink meme: the-ragnarok.dreamwidth.org/36632.html

The straps holding him to the examination table are tight, because he struggled; they hold him bound against the stainless steel hard enough to bruise the points of his hips, his sore, untouched nipples. He pants and squirms, still. He can't help it, even when he hears the doctor come in, his disapproving sigh.  
  
"Mr Reese, I told you to keep still."  
  
John bucks against the table once before he gets himself under control, a pavlovian response to his voice. They've been around the block a few times, he and Dr Finch. There's no give in the straps, and his hard dick bobs uselessly in the air.  
  
"Didn't you tell me last month that this wouldn't happen again?" Finch says, and John hears the snap of rubber gloves. His mouth starts to water around the gag, and he closes his eyes with the shame of it. He can feel his cheeks burning. "You promised that you would register at the Centre."  
  
"Sorry, doc," John slurs hoarsely around the gag, because Finch hates it when he talks, and he'll get this done quicker if he's pissed. He already sounds pretty pissed.  
  
"Whether or not you are _sorry_ makes no difference to me," Finch snaps, and John's spine melts a little as he hears the cap of lube pop. Then Finch's cold, latex-covered fingers are there, where John's body is so hot, pressing inside him, too fast, too full to be pleasurable. He swallows a groan, and starts counting in his head in Russian. Not long 'til this is over. He just needs it to be over.  
  
He hears Finch sigh again behind him, then there's the quiet hum of the machine starting up, the attachment buzzing against his hole, the slow, agonizing burn of it opening him up. He whines and pants against the table, glad that all he can see is metal.   
  
"Why go through this every month, John?" Finch says quietly. "There's someone out there who could make this good for you."   
  
The pity in his voice makes it worse, surprises tears from John's eyes. It's a new record; he usually doesn't cry until the thing's been inside him for at least five minutes. The hitches and sobs jerk his body incrementally back onto the huge dildo in ways he can't control, but Finch doesn't let up, except for one moment when he rests his hand on John's lower back. For a terrible moment John thinks he's going to call it off, and panic claws at his throat, but then that grounding pressure is gone again and there's only the inhuman, hard intrusion pushing deeper into him.   
  
Finch clears his throat. "Not long now," he says flatly. "You'd better bite down." John has a few seconds to brace himself before the full length of the attachment slides home into him and the metal head, hardly warmed by his body and vibrating mercilessly, is pressing against his prostate.  
  
He convulses, coming untouched in pulses that would rattle his teeth if he weren't biting down hard into the rubber-tasting gag. He can hear his come spattering into the basin below the table. It's too intense to feel good; it just _feels_ , pleasure and pain indistinguishable at this point. More tears trickle from between his eyelashes. Not over yet. Nearly there.   
  
He hears the rustle of Finch moving behind him, and the click of a keyboard, then the machine starts to whine, and the middle section of the phallus begins to expand, simulating a knot. He comes again, writhing uselessly against the table, his whole body humming like a bowstring. He's making noises around the gag now, whimpers and moans that he'll feel sick to his stomach about later. The artificial knot inside him feels huge, wrong, and it keeps going beyond what he thinks he can bear, the automated thrusts slamming against his prostate all the time. He comes a third time, wracked with shudders. There's no splatter into the basin this time, nothing left in him.  
  
"That's enough of that, I think," Finch says coldly behind him, and then he feels the jet of artifical hormones into him, acid and burning. He cries out at that, then again as they start to work, horrible warmth creeping into his bloodstream, sating him, _pacifying_ him. He hates this part the worst. Behind him, he hears the snap of gloves again, and then Dr Finch's bare hand is on John's naked back, soothing, rubbing circles as John cries through it in hatred and relief. Finch sits with John, a quiet presence behind him for the mandatory ten minutes John has to lie with the metal knot in his ass and the hormone solution dripping out of him. Finch doesn't have to do it. But he always does.  
  
When the alarm beeps, the gloves go back on, and John's back is cold where Finch's hand has left him. The knot deflates, agonizingly slowly, and it leaves John feeling hollow. Finch wipes down his thighs and perineum with something cold and stinging, and the basin flushes below him. Usually he lets John deal with the gag, but today Finch hesitates before unfastening the gag himself. His fingertips brush against John's ear, his cheek.   
  
Helpless against the wave of hormone-induced euphoria, John fantasizes about sliding off the table, dropping down to his knees in front of Finch, pressing his face to the front of his white coat. He almost asks Finch to leave the restraints on, but instead he keeps his mouth tightly closed and his fists clenched through it as Finch unfastens the straps, one clip at a time. He wonders sometimes - when he lets himself think about these times, which isn't often - if Finch knows how dangerous John is, or if he thinks John is completely subdued in the aftermath, or if he just doesn't care. John could look up at him, now, but he keeps his eyes closed. He's never seen Finch's face. It's safer that way.  
  
"I don't suppose there's any point in saying that I hope we don't see you again next month, Mr Reese," Finch says. John doesn't particularly have anything to say to that, and besides, he doesn't trust his voice right now. There's a rustle beside his head. "You have ten minutes to get dressed. I'll see that you're left alone."  
  
The sound of Finch's shoes on the linoleum, then softer on the carpet outside. The door clicks. When he's sure Finch isn't coming back, John opens his eyes. There's a plastic cup of water and a facecloth beside him. He closes his eyes again for a moment against it, the kindness, then slowly, painstakingly, begins the process of pulling himself together.


End file.
